Competition
by AdorableKittenOfDeath
Summary: In which Lestrade finds something he thought was impossible- a genius to match Sherlock's, Mycroft is worried, but content to stand by, John just hopes that they don't accidently blow up London, and Sherlock finds a new playmate.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello. This is one of my first fics, the other one is sitting somewhere else, ready to be revamped. It's been a while since I put anything on Fanfiction so my writing style might've changed a bit. Please enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I unfortunately, do not own Sherlock, though I do own the original characters.**

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><p>Chapter 1:<p>

Lucy was getting her morning coffee when she saw him. She recognized him, DI Lestrade, from the telly. A silver-haired man with a stout form. Without bidding, her eyes began to roam over him. They landed on his clothes first.

Crumpled jacket, all-nighter. Patrol? No. Hadn't had time to change or shower, shoes clean. Urgent paperwork, then. Worn ring, but clean and polished. Scratches. Worn often. His wife was absent, his clothes were ill-taken care of. Collar turned up, jacket snug around neck. Cold air conditioner, in the office. Pants creased in a particular way, in the office a lot. The DI was used to giving orders, posture straight and demanding. He looked worn, his eyes were red, not used to so much paperwork. Recent promotion? His hair was messed up, must have a habit of running hands through hair. A stain on his sleeve, someone brought him coffee, took care of him. Not family, perhaps coworker with crush? No, coffee was plain, low-quality. Another officer on night duty, probably on break, kind enough to check in. Probably older.

All this was processed into a her brain in a split second, and even as she looked away, a small part of her mind calculated his life from miniscule details. By the time she had purchased her coffee and scones, she knew many things about not only him, but also everyone else in the café.

The new waitress was a university student and drug abuser, she was skimming off the cash register, and this was her first day. The refined gentleman in the corner had a demanding wife, three young children, and a pet cat. One which clearly disliked him, judging by the state of his thumb. He was also having an affair with the woman sitting beside him. The boy by the window was a paper-boy. He loved dogs, despite the fact that he had been bitten many times on his route. He was seventeen, and failing his science class, which was why he had remedial lessons, though he was taught by a sub-par tutor.

She turned and walked away from the counter.

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><p>Greg looked up as a girl, not much more than sixteen or seventeen, sat down across from him. She was rather pretty, with curly blonde hair and large green eyes. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and held a cup of coffee and a plate of scones.<p>

"Hello, mind if I sit down?" She asked sweetly.

"No, no. Go on ahead." He put down his own coffee.

"How was the paperwork?" She asked.

"It was fine- wait, what?" He was suddenly suspicious. The last time he had met someone who knew about him without being told, it was the scary man in a suit carrying an umbrella. He'd asked him about Sherlock, and then threatened him, and then left. It was a rather frightening encounter, and he hoped fervently that it wouldn't be repeated.

She gave him an odd look. "The paperwork? From your promotion?"

"How do you know about the paperwork? Or the promotion?" he asked suspiciously, a faint feeling of dread weighing down in his stomach.

"There are traces of ink on your hands, and your appearance suggests that you didn't sleep all night. Then, there's the fact that you work in the Yard, but your clothes and shoes are clean, so not on patrol. What's left? Paperwork."

"How do you know I work in the Yard?"

She grinned cheekily at him. "Saw it on the telly."

"That's amazing," he told her frankly.

"You think so?"

He nodded. "Yes. And the promotion?"

"You're not yet used to your routine, are you? You didn't get the chance to shower and change all night. In fact, you spent the night in your office. So a promotion."

She bit into a scone, eyes closed to savor it, completely missing the look on his face.

When she opened them again, he had composed himself and was now sipping his coffee.

"Want a scone?" She offered.

"Yeah, thanks." He took one.

They sat in silence, eating scones and drinking coffee.

When the plate was finished, she glanced down at her watch.

"Uh, sorry. Got to go, bye!" And she ran out, quickly hailing a cab, disappearing among the London traffic.

Greg was left blinking at the spot where she had been. He looked at the scone in his hand, shrugged, and took another bite. She came and left so quickly, leaving him a bit dazed. He ate mechanically, mind whirring, as he thought about that girl. Her deductions had reminded him so much of Sherlock that he had actually stopped to consider her being a relative. But no, there was no familial resemblance at all.

Well, she seemed nice. He seriously hoped that she wasn't a serial killer or murderer in disguise. It would put a damper on things. In fact, he hoped that she wouldn't see a corpse at all any time soon.

If only he knew.

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><p>The next morning, when Lucy walked in, he was there. If she had to guess, it would be the scones. He did seem like he enjoyed them. Yep, she glimpsed a plate of them next to his laptop.<p>

Today. he was dressed in another jacket, a button-up shirt, and a pair of pants not unlike the ones he wore yesterday. She had the feeling this was his usual outfit. She noted the small details. It seemed that today, he would be meeting with his wife. The shirt was old, far older than the one yesterday, sentimental value. The shoes were expensive, high-quality brand. A cop like him wouldn't buy something like that for no reason. The ring was also shinier, newly polished.

She plopped down next to him, unnoticed, and proceeded to dump an unhealthy amount of sugar into her coffee.

"Hello!" she greeted cheerfully.

He jumped at her voice, head snapping up to see who it was.

"Oh," he said. "Hi."

"Hmm..." she sipped at it and took a bite out of her truffle.

Lucy held the plate out in a silent offer.

"Thanks," he said, and took one.

"So," she said, once she finished the truffle. "Where are you meeting her?"

"Oh?" he was startled for a moment. Then, it occurred to him. "Oh. We're meeting at the italian restaurant down the street. It's where we had our first date." He paused for a moment afterwards, unnerved at how tolerant and calm he was being about this. Perhaps it was from being around Sherlock, but he really wasn't all that surprised by sheer genius anymore.

"Good luck." She smiled brightly at him.

He couldn't help but smile back. "Thanks."

"So, ah," he fumbled for a conversation topic. "What's your name?"

She took another bite. "Lucy, Lucy Henderson."

"I'm Greg, Greg Lestrade."

"I know," she said simply.

"And, uh, how are you?" He winced at his awkward question.

Lucy stopped and gave him an amused look. "I'm fine." Apparently, she too, thought it was funny, a grown cop fumbling for conversation with a teen.

Greg tried to think of something else to say, before giving up. He picked up his pen to continue his work.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her finish her pastries, each one disappearing rather quickly from the large pile on her plate. Finally, when they were all gone, she stilled. She stayed still for almost an entire minute, before she abruptly slumped.

Alarmed, he quickly stood up, coming over to her side of the table. But before he could lift her face and check her pulse, there was a groan.

"I'm so _bored._"

He couldn't help it. He burst out laughing.

What would it be like for her to meet Sherlock?

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><p>They met there everyday, until after a while, Lestrade began to think of Lucy as a surrogate niece. She was always bright and cheery, patiently pointing things out to him that he would never have noticed on his own.<p>

He thought her to be a child genius at first, and was quite surprised to find out her actual age.

_"Do you go to school?" he asked one day. _

_"Homeschooled," Lucy answered. Today, she had ice cream. He wondered at her ability to eat heaping amounts of sweets and not put on an ounce of fat._

_"Do you to plan to be anything in the future?" He thought his question to be rather normal, certainly not deserving of her exasperated expression._

_She put down her spoon. "How old do you think I am?"_

_"Uh, sixteen? Seventeen?" He guessed._

_She laughed, the sound drawing everyone's attention to them. He waited in confused silence until she calmed down._

_"My stomach hurts," she gazed accusingly at her giant bowl of ice cream. Having seen her devour all manners of sweets, he doubted it was the ice cream. "Anyway," she turned those pale green eyes on him. "I'm twenty-five, Greg. Twenty-five."_

_His jaw dropped open._

"So?" Lucy's voice was impatient.

Greg snapped himself out of his thoughts.

"Uh, sorry?" he blinked. "I zoned out a bit."

"I could tell," she said wryly. Lucy sighed. "I asked if you wanted to go to the park."

"Oh, uh," he collected himself. "Sure."

He grabbed his jacket and stood up, walking along her as she chattered about the people around them, unaware of the eyes following him. However, Lucy was more than aware, and sharp green eyes narrowed momentarily even as she informed Greg about the nurse in front of them, who had a rich boyfriend that she was cheating on, and a pet dog that she absolutely adored. She subtly shifted her body, giving off a clear warning to any trained eye, even as she chattered on.

Unnoticed, a man gave a malicious chuckle as he witnessed her confident move. "Oh, darling Miss Hawk. You have no _idea_."

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><p><strong>Please review! It makes me happy and write more :)<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Sherlock Holmes paced the length of his living room, absent-mindedly stepping over the piles of books that littered the floor. There were documents pinned half-hazardly onto a giant map that spanned the wall. The entire room was a large mess, an OCD person's worst nightmare. He ignored everything, including the man in the armchair who was patiently waiting for him to make a breakthrough.

A few words were mumbled now and then, but for the most part, he paced in silence. Every once in a while, he would spin around and stare at a document or picture on the wall, before turning on his heel and pacing again. Ten minutes passed, marked only by the clock and his mumblings. _Tick. Tock._

Suddenly, his sharp blue eyes lit up.

"I've got it! Come on, John." With no further explanation, he swept out of the room.

The other man- John, got up as well, carefully stepping over the books on the floor, before following his friend out the door.

By the time he got there, Sherlock already had his coat on and was wrapping his scarf around his neck.

He looked up briefly as he flipped up the collar of his coat. John was tugging his own jacket on. Without a word, he stepped outside, holding the door open for the shorter man before shutting it. He hailed a cab, and the two went inside it.

They never looked back, or they would've saw a girl, who appeared in her teenage years, with blonde curls and green eyes, look around herself curiously. She too, disappeared among the crowds.

...

A dark-haired man in a wealthy three piece suit talked quietly to three other men. His dark umbrella rested against his leg, tapping the floor from time to time. The four men were the same, influential men who bribed and blackmailed to get their way, powerful men with the world at their fingertips. A whispered word could start a war, a sly suggestion could topple an empire. However, among them, there was no doubt as to who had the most power, the ability to completely ruin the other three.

The man with the umbrella smirked as he layed out his demands, knowing that they hated it, this lack of control. He enjoyed their priceless faces, and he knew that by nightfall, they would've given in. Powerful men they were, but none quite so much as him. He had fingers dipped in all the important jars, silent webs spanning the globe. If he so desired, he could conquer and rule the world in an instant, without its people ever rebelling. He simply preferred the shadows to the spotlight, the puppeteer behind the play.

The men before him had been born into this power, inherited all their shadowy influence. They didn't know what to do it their power failed them, had never had it fail them. Until now.

He sat there quietly, regally. He watched as they broke into nervous sweat, unbecoming of their high class and rank. He would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it, this sense of absolute surety, the way a predator feels before it pounced, knowing that the blow would strike true. He suspected it was much the way his younger brother felt when he pursued crimes and murderers, already knowing what the outcome would be. This was rather similar, just subtler, more delicate. He knew how their minds ticked, and he used that knowledge to his advantage.

So he sat waiting, and the clock ticked by. He could practically see their minds caving in, could hear their realities crashing down. He smirked as he tapped his umbrella, the irregular beat unsettling his 'guests'.

Then, quite suddenly, his phone rang. He glanced down, and fixed his attention on it for the duration of a minute or two. The men were pathetically relieved when they didn't feel his heavy gaze anymore, when the sole of his dangerous attention is no longer directed at them.

His facial expression did not alter a bit, though he frowned internally. A new element had been spotted in London, in close vicinity to his brother. She was dangerous, the sort of dangerous that you didn't know was dangerous until it slipped between your ribs and wrenched your heart out. She wasn't unfamiliar to him, but it had been a long time since she had played her games in his area.

Which meant that he had to contact her, preferably before anyone else.

He looked back up at the gentlemen before him, face impassive and unfeeling. Then, there was a single, threatening smile, and he was out the door. It closed with a quiet click behind him

...

Truth be told, Lucy wasn't all that surprised when a steriotypical black car pulled up behind her on a busy street. She was aware that the CCTV cameras had been following her for a while now, and that she was tailed by four plain-clothed government agents. She had also formulated a well-educated guess on who went to all this trouble when most people just called her phone.

Ah, there. One of the phone booths began to ring just as she passed by. She gave the nearest camera a knowing and amused look, but went in and picked it up anyway.

"Good afternoon, Miss Henderson," said a deep velvet tone.

"Good afternoon," she responded cheerfully.

"I'm sure that you are aware of the security cameras following you, as well as four of my agents."

And two snipers, but neither of them mentioned it. British manners and all. It would be quite rude, as well as stupid, to point out _everything_.

"Of course!" she said. "Is the car yours?" Lucy wanted to be certain.

"Would you mind making your way to it, Miss Henderson? It would greatly simplify the situation."

"Kay!" she exclaimed, waving at the CCTV camera. "I'll see you later, Mr Mycroft Holmes."

She hung up before he could say anything else. Then she walked towards the black car, humming the entire way. Lucy wondered if the car had a radio, and if not, than if the driver would permit her to use his phone. Her own was running out of battery.

...

Mycroft put the phone down. Miss Lucillia Henderson had been... a bit different from what he expected.

He stood and walked to the window. All that remained was to wait, and wait he did.

...

Lucy got out of the car and and looked up at the white mansion. It had green ivy climbing up the pristine white walls, the yard was freshly mowed.

She walked up the stairs, glancing around the halls as she passed by. Mr Holmes did not seem to be in the mood to impress, as the mansion could not be any more than a simple summer home.

All the doors were locked, all but one, an obvious command. This one led to a study, with a window overlooking the front yard. Bookshelves spanned the walls, filled with old tomes and new classics. A man in a smart suit sat behind the grand mahogany desk, hands folded in front of him. An umbrella leaned against its side. The carpet was a deep red color.

Lucy ignored him at first, hands trailing along the spines of the musky-smelling books. She recognized a few titles, while others were foreign to her. She counted classics in French, Italian, German, Russian, Latin, and a few more, but none in English. There were no languages that she didn't recognize, though a few were quite obscure.

Mycroft cleared his throat after a few minutes. watching the young lady get herself absorbed in the small collection.

"Hmm?" she wrenched herself from her ponderings. "Do you mind if I borrow these sometime?" She kept her eyes on his.

"Help yourself," he allowed graciously. "I hope that you've enjoyed your day?" Mycroft kept a polite smile on his face.

"It was wonderful, thank you," she absent-mindedly responded, mind still on the books.

"How are you finding London?" He watched her carefully.

"It's very lovely," she replied in that light voice of hers.

They kept the silence for five minutes more until she finally looked up, green eyes sharp.

"So what is it that you have called me here for?" Her voice was still light, only now it showed the tiniest sliver of an edge.

"Sit down," he gestured at the chair.

"No, thank you. I prefer to stand," she said.

"Very well then, do you know why you are here?"

"Nope," she popped the 'p'. "I don't know why you want me here."

He stared at her for a moment, before smiling.

"You are here, Miss Henderson," he said. "Because..."

...

Sherlock and John smiled at each other over all the noise and flashing lights. The most recent murderer was being shoved into a police car, hands cuffed behind his back. His face was an alarmingly red color, and veins bulged out in various places.

"Let me go! I haven't done nothing! Let me go, you beasts!"

He was ignored completely.

John took a moment to look him over again.

The man's name was Thomas Thatcher, a pudgy chef of a small restaraunt. He had well-known anger issues, and had poisoned a a critic for proclaiming his work 'utterly disastrous and unworthy of consumption'. The poor man had been found dead in the parking lot, long after midnight, after being tied up and beaten for hours.

Mr Thatcher had then taken careful measures to keep the police off his trail, soaking the body in acidic solutions and wearing gloves all the while. He threw away his clothes and shoes and gloves, and carefully cleaned away all the evidence.

Unfortunately for him, it had taken Sherlock barely three minutes to point out irrefutable proof that the man had been the culprit.

John looked up at the man in question. He cut quite an imposing figure. A great cloak swept around him, collar turned up to give a more mysterious air. He was tall and thin, but contained a surprising amount of strength, considering that he barely ate or slept.

John, on the other hand, was quite plain. Straight blonde hair and brown eyes, a short figure, he wasn't nearly as impressive as his companion. In fact, beside him, he was practically invisible. But oftentimes, _he _was the one to bail him out, to pull the gun out and ask questions later.

He looked around again. He had the feeling that something was going to change.

...

After that initial meeting, Mycroft supposed he wasn't very surprised to find Miss Henderson in his office, boredly flipping through his files_. His confidential files on various matters threatening the country, hidden in an electronically locked safe, in his secure office, which lay behind five hundred and twenty-seven security measures. _He made a mental note to tighten security, as it was rather unnerving that she managed to get past it with such ease.

She looked and got her feet off his desk when he came in, not looking the least apologetic. She waved a folder in the air.

"Do you think I could borrow these? I'm bored."

Mycroft thought she sounded much like a petulant child, but kept his thoughts to himself. He was in a room with a trained assassin, unprepared. Not angering her would be an act of self-preservation.

Instead, "How did you get in?" He asked, rather brusquely.

He kept his face impassive as she proceeded to tell him, in a tone that suggested that she was distinctly unimpressed, all the leaks and cracks in his security. He had no doubt that she failed to mention a few, so that she could keep an open door to his office, but he made notes to correct the ones she did mention, and decided to personally check his security later.

"Why are you here, Miss Henderson? I am a busy man, as you well know. I have no time to trifle with you."

"I told you already, _Mycroft._" He inwardly cringed at the informal use of his name, as well as the tone it was spoken in. He could stand it from the uneducated masses, when he encountered them, but Miss Henderson knew full well the etiquette of traditional noblemen, especially from a family as old as his. "I am _bored_."

He raised an eyebrow in silent admonishment. She reminded him of Sherlock, his little brother, more than he could admit. He deplored sentiment, as it was an obstacle to rational thinking, so kept his mind away from thoughts of his brother.

Even so, he couldn't help but feel nostalgic when she jumped up from the comfortable chair and half expected her to begin pacing. She did no such thing. Instead, Miss Henderson stalked, yes, _stalked_ toward him, as if _she _was the predator and _he_ the prey. He found himself amused at this situation, despite the very real danger it presented him, as she was tiny, almost an entire foot shorter than him.

"I remind you of someone," she said matter-of-factly. "Who?"

He was careful to keep his expression calm. "There are many people with whom I am aquainted," he began.

She snorted at the word 'aquainted', but he ignored her.

"And there is a myriad of possibilities on who you may or may not remind me of. Care to specify?"

For a fraction of a second, his control slipped and he forgot that not everyone had the genius that he and his brother shared, that most people were meaningless goldfish that swam around in aimless circles. But she didn't disappoint him.

"You wouldn't be looking at me like that if I reminded you of a nobody, so someone important, or someone close to you. I have my own reputation, apart from the rest of the mass, so it is very unlikely that there is someone with my mannerisms. Also, while you may keep surveillance on various persons, none would amuse you to this extent if they were not personal. You have next to no interactions with your family, _with the exception of your little brother._" She paused here and tilted her head in what he supposed was an endearing fashion. "Whom I am told I bear a passing resemblance to."

It took him less than a second. "Greg Lestrade."

"Mmhmm," she hummed, looking at her watch. "Apparently, he and I are much alike, personality-wise. Goodbye, Mr Holmes."

Miss Henderson passed him by, but didn't take more than three steps before he turned around.

"Miss Henderson. The files?"

Miss Henderson looked back at him over her shoulder, smiling. Her right hand waved the folder in the air. "It's nice to see you're as quick as they say. I'll be keeping these."

He didn't bother to follow her out.

Instead, he pulled out his phone.

"Send a team to my office. I suspect that it has been bugged."

He sighed. What to do about Miss Henderson?

...

Lucy walked down the street, Mycroft's files clasped firmly under her left arm. Today, she'd managed to get a few more, to stave off her boredom.

She always knew it was going to happen. London's beautiful streets, that wonderful cafe, all the signs of life and petty crime that surrounded her. She was _bored_ with it all.

Greg was a suitable audience for her complaints, her roommate, Melissa, was suitable as a companion for those days when she had nothing to do, but _Mycroft_, Mycroft was a heaven-sent.

He had wonderful cases, little covert operations, assassination orders, protection details, beautiful things for her to tinker and play with. He didn't dare deny them to her, and she did them better than the people he hired anyway.

Lucy wasn't sure why, after traveling for so long, that she decided to stay in London, but she was starting to see that she wasn't going to mind so much. The wanderlust that had affected her for so many years, the urge to just keep on moving, was fading. It didn't affect her restlessness much, she still had to _do_ things, but now she didn't have to do them in another country.

She wondered if she had grown out of her 'phase', as her family called it.

Lucy opened the first folder. Inside was a picture of a woman, with a head of blonde hair, mid-thirties. She had eyes like mud at the bottom of a pretty pond, filth behind a jade screen, dull and glazed over. She had freckles and a pug nose, a long neck and a sharp chin. She was tall and skinny, with a bit of wiry strength in the sallow skin. A pathetic woman, living off of drugs and alcohol, agreeable to every profitable deal that came her way. She belonged to a small network that Lucy was getting rid of for Mycroft.

Lucy snapped the folder shut and waved at a CCTV camera when she passed by. It was time to take care of the last link.

...

Sherlock was lying on the couch again, closing his eyes as he thought over his latest case.

Samantha Tergins, master smuggler and drug dealer, had disappeared. She had been connected to a terrorist cell in France, as a provider. There were others, other providers, but they had also gone missing. She had simply been the last one, and the most visible, which had afforded her some protection in the past.

But where? Where had they gone? Where had they been taken? It was quite obvious that they had been taken against their will. The perpetuator had been quite crafty, leaving clues in places where only other smugglers would look, making them panic and run, drawing out his prey. Where did the clues lead? He(balance of probability said it was a he) was clever, so very clever. Sherlock rather enjoyed piecing the clues together in this way.

He needed more information.

Sherlock popped his eyes open with a speed that usually startled those around him.

"John," he called out. "Give me your laptop."

Silence. Where was John?

"John!"

Still nothing. John must've gone out again. Sherlock didn't like it when he did that. It was annoying, and distracting. John had become a fixture in his life and he'd gotten used to ordering him around. He was a good audience. The skull would have to do for now, until John came back.

But first, he needed information. He typed in John's password and immediately hacked into the police database. He should find what he needed there.

...

Lucy opened the next folder. This organization had been far too easy to collapse, and the stragglers were all but useless. She wanted something else to do and Mycroft had obliged.

Lucy turned the pages, ignoring the blacked out words and classified labels. As she read through it, details stuck out, ironing themselves out and arranging into several plausible theories until she had the entire story. Sighing, she ripped the paper into shreds and burned it with a lighter, all within view of a CCTV camera. Didn't Mycroft know to send her the more interesting ones by now?

A black car pulled up beside her and she stepped inside. Hopefully, there would be something fun for her to do.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

**Anyway, thank you to 1bluesapphire for reviewing. It's really encouraging to get feedback and I admit I'm a bit greedy for more.**

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><p>A lone man stood on a private balcony overlooking the ballroom. He watched passively as the crowd below him twirled and tittered, safe in their little bubbles of wealth and lineage.<p>

The ladies and lords were all dressed in the best clothes money could buy, silk and satin rustling here and there. The men wore pressed suits, usually a black, blue, or white color, with a few others mixed in here and there. The majority of the women wore vivid colors to stand out, bright reds and greens, until it was almost blinding to look at them at all.

His own suit was a simple black, though it's materials were as elegant as any of the ones within the crowd. Mesmerizing pale green eyes observed the room, unimpressed by the majestic chandeliers and marble floors. He was equally unimpressed by the expensive materials and exclusive designs that everyone else complimented. None of that was important.

He looked down as his phone rang, a soft classical piece barely heard over the orchestra playing below.

"Marcus?" His voice was soft and lyrical.

"Sir, we have a break-in!" The man named Marcus said calmly, a note of urgency in his voice.

"Report to me, then."

"They came through the back doors and knocked out two of ours, it seems chemical in nature, sir. The cameras are looping; we've narrowed their location to three areas. Security is heading in as we speak, sir."

"Why are you only calling me now?" The green-eyed man asked.

"We've only just discovered it, sir. The land-lines were blocked somehow, and all our phones too. They're good at this, sir. What should we do?"

"Do you have any more information?"

"Yes, sir. The results have just come in..." Marcus listed the height, weight, feet size, and other informaton about the intruders, along with possible suspects, and plausible motives.

The green-eyed man sighed, before turning his back on the balcony and stepping down the stairs. He might as well go and take care of some other things first. His brother would see to himself.

* * *

><p>Lucy hummed to herself as she lifted the heavy crate onto the tall pile. The warehouse was old, dusty, and seemingly abandoned. The smugglers had always hidden their cargo here, safe in the knowledge that no one could find it.<p>

She dusted off her non-descript gloves, looking around her to see if there was anything she had missed. Everything was in its place.

Lucy pulled off her gloves and grabbed the cheap phone that had been bought for this exact purpose. It wasn't long before someone picked up.

"Hello?" she asked, her voice purposely trembling and pitched annoyingly high.

"This is Scotland Yard; what is your emergency?" replied a rough, but undoubtedly feminime voice.

"I just went walking around, and then I saw these lights in one of those abandoned warehouses- you know, the ones at Keireton? I went in to check and- and then," she stuttered a bit to highlight the importance. "I think I saw these people walking around and carrying big boxes into this truck. I didn't think they have permission to do that... Do they have permission to do that?" she made sure to sound unsure.

"I-" the officer began to say.

"Anyway, I'm inside and they left ten minutes ago. The door was wide open and so was the gate, and I don't think anyone's supposed to be here. I hope I'm not breaking any laws, but I walk around here every Thursday and the lights have never been on so I was curious. I-" here her voice trembled, and she could tell that the officer was annoyed at her rambling. They must've been short on people if she hadn't already passed her on to another operator. "I think that these are dr-drugs, ma'am. One of the boxes are open and I looked inside and the jars inside were filled with pills and some sort of liquid. There are a couple of syringes lying around and I'm- I'm really worried, ma'am."

"Just hold on, Miss...?"

"Robult. My name is Anna Robult, ma'am," she inserted a bit of fake bravado.

"Alright, Miss Robult. Tell me exactly where you are."

Lucy had no doubt that the call had been traced and coppers were on their way, but acted as the nervous young woman her persona required her to act. She told her exact location, brushing her fingers through her mousy brown wig, and absently fiddling with her second-hand buttons.

Lucy was the perfect picture of an average, perhaps poor, university graduate. Hand-me-down jacket and old paint-splattered shirt, worn jeans and scuffy converse, the barest make-up and a few freckles.

She waited patiently for the coppers to show up.

Four minutes later, the sound of sirens became louder and louder in the distance, and she had taken to leaning against the wall.

Lucy straightened as the cars came to a stop, hunching her shoulders in a slight slouch while pretending to fidget.

They were so predictable that it was almost laughably easy. Undoubtedly, Mycroft would disapprove if she laughed right then. As she stuttered and blushed her way through the questioning, she wondered exactly when Mycroft's opinions became so important to her.

That sneaky bastard.

But she would think on it later. Now was not exactly the time for a thorough self-analysis. Later, she would fix this annoying little glitch in the security of her mind-wall.

Right on cue, the red-head copper that was in charge of the situation asked her to accompany to the station.

Lucy agreed.

* * *

><p>Sherlock talked to a dirty homeless orphan, in the process of procuring information to solve the case.<p>

The boy- Sherlock didn't care for his name, gave an informative report, eager for the reward money that he had been promised.

"I wen' round the house like ye said, and there it waz, sittin' 'ere nice an' pretty. It was shiny new and silver, an' park'd half-way in. 'Ere was a lady sitting on the porch, cryin'. Couldn' make ou' wha' she said, but I though' I heard 'er say somethin' 'bout a Sam an' askin' why a couple times."

"That's enough for now," Sherlock interrupted suddenly. "I will return when I have further use of your expertise." Handing the money over to the staring boy, he turned on his heel and strode out of the alley, confident in his conclusions.

He hailed a cab and stepped inside.

* * *

><p>Officer Lorry Denver escorted the girl inside.<p>

They needed her statement for the case. Hopefully, Holmes wouldn't be there. It was hardly productive if he managed to make her cry before they got anything out. Denver didn't exactly fancy girls cryng on him, though- he glanced to the side- this girl was rather pretty.

She had straight brown hair and pretty blue eyes, and an adorable smattering of freckles across her cheeks. A worn jacket fit snuggly against her plain blue T-shirt. She seemed so shy and flighty that he almost wanted to wrap her in blankets and keep her there.

Denver shook his head to clear it of thoughts about adorable girls and beds, half-dreading to go in and find that Holmes was the center again, sprouting off uncannily accurate facts based on infinitesimal details that no one else noticed.

He glanced to the side again. Miss Robult was looking around curiously, her eyes trailing over everything. He fought the urge to smile.

The urge immediately died when he saw Holmes take interest in her. The man was winding down after a long, one-sided discussion when he abruptly stopped, jerking his head around to watch her.

Blue met blue as she caught and held his gaze. The silence was broken when a gray-haired man coughed.

"Miss...?"

"Robult," she told him. "I'm here for my statement."

"Oh-"

"Don't bother," Holmes cut in. "She hardly saw anything, anyway."

His eyes remained on her though. This was more attention than he usually paid anyone, much less a person inconsequential to his current case. Whatever it was, Denver didn't like it.

He narrowed his eyes.

* * *

><p>Sherlock immediately stopped talking when an officer whose name he didn't bother to remember walked in with a girl. She was obviously a witness to something, seeing as she was headed to the office where statements were usually taken.<p>

Something was off about her.

Brown hair, blue contacts, obvious. A bit of make-up, barer than most women. Worn jacket, old. She didn't care about it, so why did she keep it? Ah, a name was written under the collar. _Anna_. It wasn't the name of someone dear to her or she'd take better care of it, so it must be her own. She never bothered to throw it away. A shirt, also old, though not as old as her jacket. It was worn often, a favorite. It was beginning to unravel at the hem. Jeans, new. As new as yesterday, in fact. Someone must've gone shopping with her. A girl who didn't care about clothes wouldn't buy something so expensive as this particular brand. Her hair was still tangled, though she took care of it normally, shown by the lack of split ends.

She was average, but there was just something _off _about her.

Sherlock couldn't put his finger on it, which was frustrating in itself without adding to the perpetuator of the missing smugglers. Wait. Smugglers.

He fought the urge to laugh. How did he not see this? Mycroft just _had_ to interfere, dangling this case in Sherlock's face before he got bored again. A favor, but one that Sherlock had no intention of acknowledging, as was the case with many of his brother's other favors.

The girl smirked at him as she passed by.

He didn't spare another glance.

* * *

><p>Mycroft watched the screens, satisfied with the scene.<p>

If his dear brother believed Lucy to be under his control, then he would not go and seek danger from her. Sherlock hated to have anything to do with his brother, a fact that had inconvenienced him several time, due to his stubborn bull-headedness. But now, this fact was an undeniable advantage.

He turned to the piece of cake on the table beside him. Perhaps it was time to indulge a little.

* * *

><p>Lucy had heard about the infamous Sherlock Holmes from one of her contacts, some three years ago.<p>

Back then, he had simply been the frightening psychopathic genius that the Yard counselled. He was barely known, as he was picky with his customers. But when he was there, he had a powerful and stifling presence, enough for his every word to be heard and his every action to receive grudging attention.

He certainly lived up to his reputation, though Lucy suspected that he had been mellowed by a certain John Watson. For one, he hadn't outright declared her intentions, though she knew that those sharp eyes missed nothing. He had, instead, dismissed her utterly. She couldn't resist the smirk she had sent as she passes by.

Sherlock Holmes was a striking man. Piercing blue eyes and aristocratic nose, stunning cheekbones and beautiful curly black hair. He was tall and lean, and gave an impression that the people around him were less than the dirt on his shoes.

She was intrigued.

* * *

><p><strong>Review, review, review! Please?<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

**I sort of forgot this detail, but if it's not obvious and you look back later, Denver doesn't know who Lestrade is and Lestrade didn't recognize Lucy. That part was written from Denver's POV.**

* * *

><p>Mycroft felt like drinking. His migraine grew every time he thought about Lucy, surpassing any other. It seemed that whenever his brother was involved, something would go wrong.<p>

He had achieved what he wanted. Sherlock wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole if you paid him. However, in the process, he had made a grave miscalculation.

Sherlock may not want anything to do with her, but she certainly wasn't going to back off. Lucy had taken interest in Sherlock from their first meeting, and it would take very little for Sherlock to rethink and re-evaluate his opinions. She was unusual enough for him to take such a course of action.

Perhaps _he_ should re-evaluate her character.

For now, there were no misunderstandings between them. Lucy would come and go as she wanted, and Mycroft would allow her. Information would pass freely between them. In return, she was not averse to doing him favors, allowing him to occasionally utilize her talents.

Neither of them were disillusioned. Mycroft filtered the information allowed to reach her and she only took missions that benefited her personally, though the link to such benefits were complicated and abstract. Both of them were content to pretend otherwise.

He had no authority over her, or at least, nothing he could enforce. She in return, had no influence over him. They were at a en compasse, a stalemate.

They were fully prepared to turn against each other at any time, and with deadly force.

The goldfish would be horrified.

* * *

><p>Lucy was returning home after a suitably successful shopping expedition. She hummed as she deposited the bags in the cab.<p>

On the ride home, Lucy amused herself by watching the people around her. The woman in the corner had three pet poodles. The man crossing the street had four bagels for breakfast. The common masses were petty and whimsical, mundane and boring, unaware of the things happening around them. They were so sheltered that it was almost funny.

Lucy thanked and paid the cabbie when they reached her house, grocery bags in her arms. She fiddled around with her ring of keys before opening the door, balancing a carton of milk under her chin.

The door opened.

Everything dropped as she let them go, reaching a hand to the concealed gun at her back.

Her sharp eyes swept around the room, taking in the details. She kept her back to the wall, glancing out the window at the buildings nearby for a sign of a sniper, even as her mind raced through all the information that it was given.

There was a corpse in the middle of the living room. The corpse in fact, belonging to her former roommate, Melissa Jones.

It was obviously a threat. If they could get inside her flat and kill her flatmate without alerting anyone, then what else could they do that she didn't know about? She would have to deal with them later.

But first, she had to avoid being arrested. There was no time to waste.

Lucy screamed. It was a loud, blood-curdling sound that made her inwardly wince. But she didn't stop.

One of her neighbors burst through the door, his eyes landing on the pale corpse. To his credit, he barely paled, before immediately dialing the Yard.

By now, she had quieted, and was imitating the symptoms of shock quite well. She stared at the corpse unmovingly, blank expression settled firmly into place. She didn't stir at all when the door slammed open.

Lucy was barely paying attention to the world around her, though some part of her brain still used the information that streamed from her senses, slotting the smallest pieces into place to complete a puzzle that was a piece of a larger puzzle.

She was running through a list of suspects, marking and dismissing them as they appeared in her mind's eye. As she did so, she berated herself for forgetting to insure the security of the people she interacted with. It was remiss of her, an amateur mistake that she would be sure to correct.

But the list of suspects was growing longer and longer, as was the case when anyone tried to target her. Many people had the motive to do this, but not many had the resources. She had an extensive information network, so the agent responsible for Melissa's death would have had to be disposable to the person that hired them.

She ran over the details, and then factored in the evidence.

Melissa's corpse was messy, designed to draw out fear and panic. The large gashes in her body were jagged and crooked, meaning that she had been alive when they were made. The bruises around her neck suggested another possible way she died, but Lucy dismissed it. With such a prominent threat waving in her face, the agent would hardly kill her in such a tame way. There were signs of an injection in her upper left arm, likely to be a dose of tranquilizer or some other similar subduing drug, but just as likely to be poison or something completely harmless. She skimmed over facts and conclusion, disinterested in her flatmate's daily life.

The floor was clean, no obvious footprints, though she could see a faint outline here or there. The agent was female then, as men didn't usually have such small feet. Melissa was also more likely to distrust men, as she had been the victim of a near-rape in the past.

The woman was hardly one to waste time. There were no signs of tea, and Melissa always offered tea to guests. So she had waited until her victim's back was turned. The injection looked to be older than the bruises, so she must have first drugged her and then held her by the neck to cut into her.

It was all quick, clean, efficient. The killer either didn't take joy in her work, or was wary of Lucy herself.

But she wasn't looking for the dog. She wanted the master that ordered it to bite. The agent was probably already disposed of, anyway.

For someone to get such a negative impression of her, they had to first know of her. That narrowed down a lot of people. She knew her network inside out, the links disloyal to her had yet to gain anything of importance, much less her location. So it couldn't have been leaked out, unless the leak had been threatened or blackmailed.

Mycroft was a distinct possibility, though Lucy didn't think he'd resort to something so crude.

That left people from either her former profession or her old social circles.

Lucy was started out of her thoughts when someone draped a blanket over her shoulders. Blinking, she found herself on the back of an ambulance, as medics loaded her dead roommate in on a gurney.

"Why is the blanket orange?" she spoke up.

Greg had been standing nearby and was nearly startled into laughter. "That's how they made it," he said amusedly. "I'm glad you're alright."

"But why do I even have a blanket?" her brain had fixated on that detail.

"It's for the shock," Greg explained.

"I'm not in shock," Lucy protested. She really wasn't.

Greg simply gave raised an eyebrow and moved on, ignoring her petulant expression. She sighed, and then got up.

"Where are you going?" a voice asked suddenly.

Lucy turned around to find Mycroft's little brother staring at her expectantly.

"I do believe," she said slowly. "That I'm in need of the restroom."

"No you're not," he countered.

"I find it impressive that you have intimate knowledge of a lady's personal hygienic routine."

"As you should," he was unmoved.

"Do you need something?" Lucy asked.

"Why are you here?"

She blinked. "Pardon?"

Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "Whatever faith I may have had in those of Mycroft's employ has disappeared. I asked," he repeated. "Why are you here?"

"I should be asking the same of you, Mr Holmes."

"Don't play stupid. My brother owns a few complexes that he uses to house his staff. You can't possibly think that I would believe you actually live here. You're clearly not working on any covert operation. You're not keeping an eye on me or you wouldn't have let me approach you so easily. I repeat. Why. Are. You. Here?"

Lucy rolled her eyes. "And here I thought that Holmes' were supposed to be intelligent."

"Who do you work for?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry to say, Mr Holmes, that I have retired for the time being."

Lucy turned, and walked away. She didn't get very far before a surprisingly strong hand gripped her by the shoulder and turned her around.

"I assume that you are not responsible for this," he stated.

"No."

They stood like that for a bit. A blonde man- John Watson, walked up

"Sherlock!" He called. "Hi, I'm John Watson," he said to her. "Lestrade's looking for you," he informed his flatmate.

"He can wait," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Uh," he looked at her. "Sorry, who are you?"

She smiled. "Lucy Henderson, nice to meet you."

"Right," Sherlock said abruptly, sweeping his coat around and walking towards the flat.

John and Lucy shared a look before hurrying to catch up.

* * *

><p>John scrubbed his hand over his face as Lucy and Sherlock argued in the background. Somehow, he would be hard-pressed to explain exactly how, the three of them came to be in this situation, with him drinking tea as Sherlock argued with someone who could competently respond without shrinking or seeming like an idiot.<p>

Earlier that afternoon, Sherlock had received a text from Lestrade, calling them over to inspect a crime scene.

After John had a chat with him, he had found Sherlock not where he expected- at the side of the corpse- but instead, by an ambulance, where he was talking to a blonde girl covered by a bright orange shock blanket.

Later, by some unspoken agreement that John was not privy to, she followed them home to stay the night.

Currently, they were arguing on the case, or more specifically, the girl was insisting that they would not investigate without her.

"Absolutely unacceptable. You would only slow us down-"

"Then stay out of it altogether! It's hardly as if I actually need your help-"

"You forget, Henderson, that this a case that I have been requested to-"

"Refuse!"

"I take great pride in my work. You have no right to demand a_nything_-"

"Would you like to see exactly what right-"

"My brother will hardly be able to stop me-"

"You assume that I'm talking about your brother, Holmes-"

Both Sherlock and Lucy spoke with scathing tones and intimidating glares that would've cowered anyone else. However, they were completely ineffective when used against each other. Neither was willing to back down. It was almost fascinating to watch in its intensity, like a couple of bulls charging. John was just content to sit and sip at his tea.

Finally, he spoke up. "Look, I'd love to listen to you two quarrel like a pair of children, but I've got to run. My shift's coming up."

If looks could kill, he'd be dead a thousand times over. It seemed that they didn't appreciate being interrupted in the middle of their verbal spar.

John just shook his head and left them to their own devices. Hopefully, nothing would happen while he was gone.

* * *

><p>Over the passage of two hours, Mycroft's migraine just got more severe as he received updates on his brother. Apparently, Lucy would be staying at 221B Baker Street for a small period of time. This was made worse by John's departure.<p>

Without the level-headed doctor to temper the two, Mycroft was sure that disaster was on the horizon. Either they would get along famously or hate each other passionately, but both options spelled out trouble for him and the general public. Why had he allowed her to live?

Sighing, he turned his attention to where it should have been in the first place- on his candidate of choice for the Prime Minister. It spoke volumes that he had been distracted so long, but he refused to think on the subject further.

He would just have to wait and see.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

John returned home to find his flatmate sulking on the couch, curled into a ball like a petulant child. He pretended not to notice, preferring to have at least a cup of tea before daring to ask why. Their guest was nowhere to be found.

"So where is she?" he asked conversationally.

Silence answered him. He waited patiently, sipping his cup of tea and scrolling through his blog on the laptop.

Finally, Sherlock said, "She's out."

It was succint and not at all informative but John just made a noncommital sound. Sherlock would talk, eventually. He really was like a child, in this and many other ways. Once John had figured that out, it was easier to deal with him. He had always been good with children.

With an explosive and exaggerated sigh, Sherlock turned around so that he could see John.

"I am not dependent on Mycroft," he said.

Was that what he was sulking about? Sherlock had a fierce one-sided rivalry with his aloof older brother, but surely he wouldn't be that hung up on it. John sighed mentally. Of course he would.

"Nobody thinks that way, Sherlock."

"And social etiquette is an unnecessary device used by the common people to delude themselves and preserve their dignities."

"I use etiquette."

"Barely, John. And besides, you're different." John wasn't sure whether to be insulted or flattered. He settled for neither.

"Manipulating people beyond the basics is also unnecessary in my line of work."

John sighed, out loud this time. How many insults had Lucy managed to strike Sherlock with? How many had he struck in return?

"Manipulating people isn't nice, Sherlock."

"I'm not a nice person. However, both my brother and Henderson seemed to have mastered it. I am left behind. I do not enjoy the sensation."

"No one does," and John was left to wonder at her identity. Who was she?

The door downstairs open and shut loudly, the way it was wont to do, and Lucy appeared at the bottom of the stairs. A few seconds later, her footsteps could be heard ascending and her head peaked into view.

She greeted them cheerfully. "Hello!"

"Hi," he said.

"Are we going yet, Sherlock?" It was then that John noticed that she had not yet taken off her jacket and did not seem inclined to.

"Going where?" he asked, curious.

"St Barts," answered Sherlock. He sat up and glared at Lucy, who seemed happily oblivious. "We need to get the samples tested."

"Come on!" Lucy tugged John from his seat and threw his coat at him. She dragged him out the door and flagged a taxi before Sherlock came down the stairs. He scowled as he got in with them.

"Henderson, I do not know, nor do I care to know, what delusion you've managed to dream up in that hard head of yours, but make no mistake." He leaned in closer. "John is _my_ blogger, and you have no right to be dragging him around like-"

"Like the way you do?" John cut in, amused.

Sherlock turned away and looked stubbornly out the window.

Molly was inspecting a corpse when Sherlock walked in, with no knock to precede him. He swept in like he always did, and following was the stocky doctor that often accompanied him. But before the door shut behind the both of them, a girl slipped in with them.

"Miss Henderson-" Sherlock started, obviously annoyed.

"I am simply overseeing the case as a concerned witness."

"-which is absolutely unnecessary, as I said-"

"I thought you guys already had this argument? Back in the flat?" asked the doctor.

"Yes," said the girl with a pointed glance in Sherlock's direction. "We _agreed_ that it was for the best if I came along with you." She smiled brightly.

"Only because you threatened to tattle to my brother like a grade-school student."

"Petty threats only work on the petty," she told him smugly.

He glared at her before turning his attention to the lab equipment.

"Um sorry, who are you?" asked Molly.

The girl turned to her and she suddenly felt like the scum of the earth compared to her. She was beautiful. A lithe petite body, wavy blonde hair, large big eyes, and porcelain skin- she could've passed for a life-sized doll. Molly wouldn't be surprised if the teen was a model, and frankly, it was intimidating and destructive to her self-esteem.

The girl smiled with dimpled cheeks. "Lucy Henderson, ma'am."

Lucy sat on the edge of the table daintily, swinging her legs casually. Molly couldn't work up the nerve to tell her that she wasn't allowed.

Sherlock looked up suddenly. "Henderson, leave. You're frightening her."

"Hardly," she snorted, as if the very idea personally offended her. "You're not frightened are you?" she asked Molly.

"No, Miss."

"She's regressed back into childhood habits, her pupils have dilated by ten percent, she's begun to play with her fingers. The evidence is there."

Molly flushed at the humiliation of having everyone knowing her state of mind.

"I'll- I'll just be out," she ducked her head and hurriedly fled.

As she left, the distant words of, "_You're_ the one who frightened her off, you socially inept genius," followed her.

Molly went to the bathroom to wash her hands and splash her face. She stared at her reflection, comparing her plain features to Miss Henderson's doll-like features. She could never match her beauty.

Sighing, she dried her hands off and braced herself to return.

When she opened the door, no one was there.

"It's a bit not good to leave like that, Sherlock," John admonished. "Very rude."

"Spare me your lecture. You can return to apologize to Molly later," Sherlock replied briskly.

"He's right, you know," Lucy said from his other side.

Sherlock threw his hands up. "Would you rather lecture me on unnecessary social niceties, or catch a murderer?"

"You could at least try to leave a positive impression," John said.

"They might be more inclined to help you if you did," added Lucy.

Sherlock said nothing, flagging a taxi and climbing in.

John and Lucy shared a look.

* * *

><p>Lucy was sitting on the couch when the swordsman came in.<p>

Sherlock was tapping furiously on the laptop, likely searching up Melissa Jones on various databases. He didn't demand any information from her and she didn't offer. John was away, grocery shopping.

There was a soft _pit-pat_ up the stairs, like the sound of mocassin footsteps. She frowned. She hadn't heard the door open or close, and judging by Sherlock's measured pause in typing, he hadn't either.

There was a knock. Sherlock sat up and fixed his gaze on the door. "Enter."

A man walked in, dressed in robes and a scarf that wrapped around his head and neck. A client, it appeared, though a foreign one.

"Mr Holmes," he said in a thick accent. "I am here about the email I sent you," he didn't even glance her way.

"The Jaria diamond case?" Sherlock asked, blue-gray eyes taking in his every move. They both knew that the man was armed- with a sword of all things- and that he would end up using it. The question was, how would Sherlock deal with it?

"Yes. We are quite prepared to reward you-"

"Boring," Sherlock waved him off.

"But-"

"No."

The man drew his sword and held it close in a threatening position. "As I said, we are quite-"

"And as _I_ said, no."

The man lunged suddenly with a feral snarl. Sherlock ducked beneath the blow and jabbed an elbow into his ribs, sending the man off-balance and onto the couch where Lucy was sitting. He landed nearly on top of her lap, but she pushed him off and crossed her legs again, seeing no problem with allowing Sherlock to deal with him, as he had intentionally pushed the man onto her in the first place.

Sherlock ducked and whirled around the man, forever out of his reach, simply toying with him as a cat would a mouse. The 'mouse' suddenly shoved the 'cat' onto the couch, this time actually landing on Lucy's lap. The man then brought the sword down on Sherlock, who still happened to be on top of her.

She rolled her eyes as she pushed him off, rolling to the side a half-second before the sharp edge made a large cut into the couch cushion. Sherlock wasted no time in punching the man in the face, bringing him down and out.

He straightened and brushed off his suit, staring in disdain at the unconscious man.

Lucy walked over to him, peeling his scarf off to reveal a fairly handsome face of Indian origin, probably a Sikh, considering his choice of weapon and clothing, not to mention his pursuit of the diamond itself.

Sherlock stood beside her, probably noting the same details she did- that he was between the ages of twenty-three and twenty-eight, that he was the oldest in a household of two to five children, that he was raised in a religious environment and genuinely thought that this would be for his god. In other words, he was simply a messenger, a footsoldier, someone expendable.

Lucy watched, curious as to what Sherlock would do. He raised an eyebrow at her gaze but she simply motioned for him to do whatever he usually did.

Sherlock heaved a sigh, and then began to drag the Sikh down the stairs, uncaring of the unconscious man banging and hitting the walls and steps. She followed him out. Eventually, he just dumped him in an empty alley, in view of a CCTV camera.

They went back to 221b and sat down where they were originally- just in time for John to return empty-handed.

"You took your time," said Sherlock.

"Yeah, well, I didn't get the shopping," said John.

"What? Why not?" Sherlock looked up from the laptop.

"Because I had a row, in the shop, with the chip-and-PIN machine!" John said angrily.

"You... you had a row with a machine?" Sherlock asked.

"Sort of," John said sheepishly. "It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?"

Sherlock tilted his head at the kitchen. "Take my card."

John walked toward the kitchen, and then turned back, opening his mouth to say something when he caught sight of Lucy.

"Uh, hi. Is there anything you'd like, in particular, that I could go get?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Alright then," he said. And then John was gone again.

* * *

><p>He came back up nearly an hour later, staggering with the weight of several heavy bags.<p>

Lucy asked, "Need some help?"

"I can manage," he answered.

Lucy listened to him shuffle around in the kitchen for a minute before calling out again. "Do you need any help?"

"I'm fine!"

Sherlock tented his hands under his chin as if in deep thought. "I need to go to the bank." He glanced sideways at Lucy. "There's a case."

"Are you going to stop working on mine?"

"Hmm? No. I just don't have enough data yet."

"She was murdered because of me."

"That was my theory. You aren't very forthcoming with information."

"You never asked."

"Your case can be solved another time. This one's interesting."

* * *

><p><strong>I have a few direct quotes in here, though I altered the Sikh's swordfight a bit. Let me know what you think.<strong>


End file.
